Table Of Content
Kiss The Girls
Alex Cross [2]
James Patterson
Warner Books (2000)
Tags: General, Fiction, Mystery Detective, Mystery fiction, Suspense,
Thrillers, Psychological fiction, Psychological, Police Procedural, Police,
Crime, Washington (D.C.), Serial Murders, Cross; Alex (Fictitious
character), Police - Washington (D.C.), African American police, Police
psychologists, Psychologists
Generalttt Fictionttt Mystery Detectivettt Mystery fictionttt Suspensettt
Thrillersttt Psychological fictionttt Psychologicalttt Police Proceduralttt
Policettt Crimettt Washington (D.C.)ttt Serial Murdersttt Cross; Alex
(Fictitious character)ttt Police - Washington (D.C.)ttt African American
policettt Police psychologiststtt Psychologiststtt
From Library Journal
"Casanova" works the East Coast, "The Gentleman Caller" works the West
Coast, and these two serial killers might just be working together. Washed-up
Washington, D.C., police detective Alex Cross gets involved when his niece is
abducted. Since this is a new work by the author of the bestselling Along Came a
Spider (LJ 12/92), don't be surprised that Paramount has bought the film rights
and that BOMC has made it a main selection.
Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Kirkus Reviews
Advertising executive Patterson doubles neither our pleasure nor our fun by
giving us two intense, Hannibal Lecter-type murderers for the price of one in an
improbable and hopelessly derivative mess of a thriller. Feds and local
authorities on both coasts are baffled by a pair of serial killers targeting beautiful
young women: The Gentleman Caller works the scene in sunny L.A., where he
brutally murders and dismembers his prey; his counterpart back East, who calls
himself Casanova, trolls the Raleigh/Durham/Chapel Hill area for sexy coeds to
victimize. Their MOs provide plenty of fodder for an author trying to cook up a
work of psychological terror: Both are powerful, handsome, brilliant (natch),
commit perfect crimes, and, despite their busy schedules, manage to keep in
touch with each other. To catch them, you obviously need a perfect crime fighter.
Enter Alex Cross, the Washington, D.C., detective/psychologist hero of
bestselling Along Came A Spider (1993), who gets dragged into all this after his
niece Naomi, a student at Duke University, vanishes. Working with the
authorities and a medical student named Kate McTiernan, who was lucky
enough to escape Casanova's clutches, Cross begins to understand how the two
dueling psychos operate. Just in the nick of time, too, because the Gentleman
Caller, on the run from the law out West, decides that nothing could be finer than
to be in Carolina with his old buddy Casanova. So, what does Cross, whose
favorite niece is now in the clutches of two sickos, do? Fall in love with Kate
McTiernan, of course, in an ill-placed romantic subplot intended to raise the
stakes in the deadly cat-and-mouse game. Does Cross save Naomi? Are the two
killers brought to justice or, at the very least, consigned to gory demises? Who
cares? As a storyteller, Patterson is a great ad copywriter. (First priting of
275,000; film rights to Paramount; Book-of-the-Month Club main selection) --
Copyright ©1994, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
James Patterson - Alex Cross 02 - Kiss The Girls
Prologue.
Perfect Crimes CASANOVA
Boca Raton, Florida, June 1975
FOR THREE weeks, the young killer actually lived inside the walls of an
extraordinary fifteen-room beach house.
He could hear the whispery Atlantic surf outside, but he was never tempted to
look out at the ocean or the private white-sand beach that stretched to three
hundred feet or more along the shore. There was too much to explore, to study,
to accomplish, from his hiding place inside the dazzling Mediterranean-revival-
style house in Boca. His pulse hadn’t stopped hammering for days.
Four people lived in the huge house: Michael and Hannah Pierce and their two
daughters. The killer spied on the family in the most intimate ways, and at their
most intimate moments. He loved all the little things about the Pierces,
especially Hannah’s delicate seashell collection and the full fleet of teak
sailboats that hung from the ceiling in one of the guest rooms.
He watched the elder daughter, Coty day and night. She attended St. Andrews
High School with him. She was stunning. No girl in school was as beautiful or as
smart as Coty.
He was also keeping his eye on Karrie Pierce. She was only thirteen, but already
a budding fox.
Although he was more than six feet tall, he easily fit into the air-conditioning
ducts of the house. He was wire thin and hadn’t started to fill out yet. The killer
was handsome in an Eastern preppy way.
Stashed in his hiding place were a handful of dirty novels, highly erotic books he
had found during fevered shopping trips to Miami. He had become addicted to
The Story of O, School Girls in Paris, and Voluptuous Initiations. He also kept a
Smith and Wesson revolver in the walls with him.
He went in and out of the house through a casement window in the cellar that
had a broken latch. Sometimes he even slept down there, behind an old, gently
purring Westinghouse refrigerator, where the Pierces kept extra beer and soda
pop for their gala parties, which often ended with a bonfire on the beach.
Truth be told, he was feeling a little extra weird that night in June, but nothing to
worry about. No problema.
Earlier in the evening, he had hand painted his body in bright streaks and
splashes of cherry red, orange, and cadmium yellow. He was a warrior; a hunter.
He huddled with his chrome-plated.22-caliber revolver, flashlight, and grope-
books in the ceiling over Coty’s bedroom. Right on top of her, so to speak.
Tonight was the night of nights. The beginning of everything that really mattered
in his life.
He settled in and began to reread favorite passages from School Girls in Paris.
His pocket flashlight cast a dim light on the pages. The book was definitely a
major turn-on, but also a big yuk. It was about a “respectable” French lawyer
who paid a buxom headmistress to let him spend nights inside a hotsy-totsy
boarding school for girls. The story was filled with the hokiest language: “his
silver-tipped ferrule,” “his faithless truncheon,” “he gamahuched the ever-
willing schoolgirls.”
After a while he got tired of reading, and peeked at his wristwatch. It was time
now, almost 3:00 A.M. His hands were shaking as he put the book aside and
peered through the cross-hatching of the grill.
He could barely catch his breath as he watched Coty in bed. The very real
adventure was now before him. Just as he had imagined it.
He savored a thought: My real life is about to begin. Am I really going to do
this? Yes, I am!… He was definitely living in the walls of the Pierce beach
house. Soon that nightmarish, eerie fact would dominate the front page of every
major newspaper throughout the United States. He could hardly wait to read the
Boca Raton News.
THE BOY IN THE WALLS!
THE KILLER WHO ACTUALLY LIVED IN THE WALLS OF A FAMILY’S
HOUSE!
A STARK-RAVING HOMICIDAL MANIAC COULD BE LIVING IN YOUR
HOUSE!
Coty Pierce was sleeping like the most beautiful little girl. She had on an
oversized University of Miami Hurricanes T-shirt, but it had moved up and he
could see the pink silk bikini panties underneath.
She slept on her back, one sun browned leg crossed over the other. Her pouty
mouth was just slightly open, forming the tiniest o, and she looked all innocence
and light from his vantage point.
She was almost a full-grown woman now. He’d watched her preen in front of the
wall mirror just a few hours before. Watched her take off her pink lacy push-up
bra. Watched her as she stared at her perfect breasts.
Coty was unbearably haughty and untouchable. Tonight he was going to change
all that. He was going to take her.
Carefully, silently, he removed the metal grill in the ceiling. Then he crawled out
of the wall and down into Coty’s sky blue-and-pink bedroom. His chest felt
constricted, and his breathing was quick and labored. One minute he felt hot, the
next he was shivering and cold.
Two small plastic trash bags covered his feet and were secured around his
ankles, and he wore the light blue rubber gloves that the Pierces’ maid used for
housecleaning.
He felt like a sleek Ninja warrior and looked like Terror itself with his naked
hand painted body. The perfect crime. He loved the feeling.
Could this be a dream? No, he knew it wasn’t a dream. This was the real deal.
He was actually going to do this! He took a deep breath and felt a burning inside
his lungs.
For a brief moment, he studied the peaceful young girl he’d admired so many
times at St. Andrews. Then he quietly slipped into bed with the one-and-only
Coty Pierce.
He took off a rubber glove and gently caressed her perfect, sun-bronzed skin. He
pretended that he was smoothing coconut-scented suntan oil all over Coty. He
was rock-hard already.
Her long blond hair was sun bleached and felt as soft as rabbit’s fur.
It was thick and beautiful and smelled forest-clean, like balsam. Yes, dreams do
come true.
Coty suddenly popped open her eyes. They were shiny emerald green gems, and
they looked like priceless jewels from Harry Winston’s in Boca.
She breathlessly said his name the name she knew him by at school. But he had
given himself a new name; he’d named himself, recreated himself.
“What are you doing here,” she gasped. “How did you get in?”
“Surprise, surprise. I’m Casanova,” he whispered against her ear. His pulse was
racing off the charts. “I chose you from all the beautiful girls in Boca Raton, in
all of Florida. Aren’t you pleased?” Coty started to scream. “Shush now,” he
said, and smothered her small lovely mouth with his own. With a loving kiss.
He also kissed Hannah Pierce on that unforgettable evening of mayhem and
murder in Boca Raton.
Shortly after, he kissed thirteen-year-old Karrie.
Before he was finished for the night, he knew that he really was Casanova the
world’s greatest lover.
THE GENTLEMAN CALLER Chapel Hill, North Carolina, May 1981
HE WAS the perfect Gentleman. Always a Gentleman. Always unobtrusive and
polite.
He thought about that as he listened to the two lovers talking in sibilant whispers
as they strolled near University Lake. It was all so dreamily romantic. It was so
right for him.
“Is this a good idea, or is this too dumb for words?” he heard Tom Hutchinson
ask Roe Tierney.
They were maneuvering into a teal blue rowboat that was gently rocking
alongside a long dock on the lake. Tom and Roe were going to “borrow”
the boat for a few hours. Sneaky college mischief.
“My great-granddaddy says drifting downstream in a rowboat doesn’t count
against your life span,” Roe said. “It’s a great idea, Tommy.
Let’s go for it.”
Tom Hutchinson started to laugh. “What if you do other things in said boat?” he
asked.
“Well, if that includes aerobics of any sort, it might actually extend your life
span.” Roe’s skirt rustled against her smooth thighs as she crossed her legs.
“Then stealing off in these nice people’s boat for a moonlight ride is a good
idea,” said Tom.
“Great idea.” Roe held her ground. “The best. Let’s do it.”
As their rowboat left the dock, the Gentleman slipped into the water.
He made no sound. He listened to every word, every movement, and every
nuance of the lovers’ fascinating courting ritual.
There was almost a full moon, and it looked serene and beautiful to Tom and
Roe as they slowly paddled out into the glistening lake. Earlier in the evening
they had gone out for a romantic dinner in Chapel Hill, and they were both
dressed to the hilt. Roe had on a pleated black skirt, a cream-colored silk blouse,
silver shell earrings, and her roommate’s dress pearls. Perfect boating attire.
The Gentleman’s best guess was that Tom Hutchinson didn’t even own the gray
suit that he had on. Tom came from Pennsylvania. He was an auto mechanic’s
son who had made it to captain of the Duke football team, and had also managed
to keep a grade index bordering on 4.0.
Roe and Tom were the “golden couple.” It was just about the only thing that
students from Duke and the nearby University of North Carolina could agree on.
The “scandal” of Duke’s football captain dating Carolina’s Azalea Queen made
the romance even spicier.
They fumbled with uncooperative buttons and zippers as they slowly drifted on
the lake. Roe wound up wearing only her earrings and the borrowed dress pearls.
Tom had on his white shirt, but it was open all the way, making a kind of tent as
he went inside Roe. Under the moon’s watchful eye, they began to make love.
Their bodies moved smoothly as the boat rocked gently and playfully.
Roe made tiny moaning sounds, which intermingled with a chorus of cicadas
playing shrilly in the distance.
The Gentleman felt a column of rage welling up inside him.
His dark side was bursting through: the brutal, repressed animal, the modern-day
werewolf.
Suddenly, Tom Hutchinson flopped out of Roe Tierney with a tiny thup.
Something powerful was pulling him out of the boat. Before he hit the water,
Roe heard him yell. It was a strange noise that sounded like yaaagghh.
Tom swallowed lake water and gagged violently. There was a terrible pain and
stinging in his throat, localized pain, but very intense and frightening.
Then, whatever powerful force had pulled him backwards into the lake suddenly
released him. The choking pressure left him. Just like that.
He was being set free.
His large strong hands, quarterback hands, went up to his throat and touched
something warm. Blood was gushing out of his throat and spreading through the
lake water. A terrible fear, a feeling close to panic, gripped him.
Horrified, he felt his throat again and found the knife embedded there.
Oh, Jesus God, he thought, I’ve been stabbed. I’m going to die at the bottom of
this lake, and I don’t even know why.
In the rocking, drifting rowboat, meanwhile, Roe Tierney was too confused and
shocked even to scream.
Her heart was pounding so rapidly and fiercely, she could hardly breathe. She
stood up in the boat frantically searching for some sign of Tom.
This must be a sick joke, she thought. I will never go out with Tom Hutchinson
again. Never marry him. Never in a million years. This is not funny. She was
freezing, and she began to grope for her clothes in the bottom of the boat.
Swiftly, close to the boat, someone or something burst out of the black-looking
water. It felt like an explosion under the lake.
Roe saw a head bobbing above the surface. Definitely a man’s head… but it
wasn’t Tom Hutchinson.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” The Gentleman spoke softly, almost
conversationally. “Don’t be alarmed,” he whispered as he reached for the
gunwale of the rocking boat. “We’re old friends. To be perfectly honest, I’ve
watched you for over two years.”
Suddenly Roe started to scream as if there were no tomorrow.
For Roe Tierney, there wasn’t.
Part One Scootchie Cross
CHAPTER 1.
Washington, D.C.
” April 1994
